


Amber On

by loserchic



Category: Inception (2010), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Master/Slave, Mildly Dubious Consent, Psychic Bond, Sub Arthur (Inception), Sub Stiles Stilinski, True Mates, Wolf Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24631483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loserchic/pseuds/loserchic
Summary: Re-posted by requestIn a world where werewolves are a self-governing nation, the strongest were-warriors are paired with human ryders and trained to protect humanity against the anthropomorphic Hyaenidae, their sworn enemies. When a prophecy surfaces tying the fate of humanity to Derek's ability to bond, Talia desperately turns to black magic to summon Derek's true ryder to his side. The spell brings Stiles, an eighteen year-old first year ryder at Torrance Hall into Derek's life, and the two are pulled into a vitriolic relationship, knowing the fate of the world as they know it rests on their ability to bond. However, being the ryder of an alpha wolf is a lifelong commitment of willing submission and absolute devotion. Stiles never expected to be the ryder of an alpha, let alone a brooding, angry prince, but he's willing to do what it takes to save the people he loves. Derek never expected Stiles at all, never expected to want him the way he does. Eames and Arthur are a ryder/wolf couple who understand the challenges of two strong personalities trying to bond. In the process of trying to help the Stiles, Arthur's own past trauma resurfaces, threatening his and Eames' own bond.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception), Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Prepare as We Will

“Talia Regina Hale V, Supreme Empress of the Northland Alliance, Alpha Queen of the Wolves, High Commander of the Northern Forces- I have been waiting for you.” Sarah Martin, the Silver Witch of Yosemite smiles through her sparkling pale eyes as she greets her old friend by Talia’s full title on the doorstep of her secluded home deep in the woods.

The empress stands alone on the doorstep, not even the Queen’s security is allowed within Sarah’s enchantments in this wood. Talia still manages to somehow look regal despite carrying a large cooler. She smiles back at the witch, stepping into the intricate witch house as Sarah beckons her through the door.

“Did you foresee my coming in your fire, Sarah?” She asks, smiling as Sarah’s many cats scatter at the scent of the wolf queen.

“Hardly,” Sarah laughs with a light tinkling gale. “My niece has been telling tales out of school again.” Although many hundred years older than the empress, the witch looks in her mid-forties, a beautiful small woman with kind eyes and pale blonde silver hair. She helps Talia set the large cooler on the floor of her homey rustic kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?” She asks the wolf queen, motioning to a copper kettle hanging over the kitchen’s fireplace.

“Please.” Talia nods, sitting down at the witch’s small kitchen table. The witch hands her an earthenware mug and sits across from the queen. “I brought offerings of waygu steaks, gummy bears, and kiwi fruit.” She nods to the cooler. “For the orphans.”

“Ah,” The witch nods knowingly. “You mate, your son, and his ryder’s favorite foods- traditional appeasement offerings.” She looks keenly across at the handsome empress. “What is it you seek, Talia?”

“I think that should be obvious.” Talia sniffs.

The witch sighs, looking down into her own coffee mug for a moment. “You’re here about your eldest son.” She says, looking back at Talia.

“The only son I have left.” Talia says sadly.

“Yes.” The witch nods. “And what is it about Derek you wish to ask me?”

“I want to know,” Talia speaks plainly, her gaze intense. “If you stand by the prophecy you made at Derek’s birth.”

“When in the history of the world has that which has been foretold been taken back by the fates?” Sarah asks calmly. “And even if you did not already know that about the prophetic, you know in your heart, Talia, that what I spoke that night thirty-one years ago not only remains true today, but in fact rings ever clearer and ever more true with every passing season.” She looks at the empress. “That is why you are here today, is it not? You feel the darkness closing in, drawing the noose tighter around your son and his people.”

“It is my understanding that the prophecy regarding Derek was a warning.” Talia says gravely. “It said nothing of the imminent destruction of my people- it merely said the fates had named Derek as my heir and said the life of the Northern Alliance relied on his survival and in his ability to secure an heir.”

“I recall what I have foretold perfectly, Empress.” Sarah says patiently. “And of course I believe what the fates have shown me: Should your son fall so shall the ryders, if the ryders fall, the wolves will surely follow, for what is a wolf without his ryder? Without the wolves the light will go out in humanity and the blackness shall reclaim the earth in eternal death and destruction.”

“I fail to understand why the fates chose Derek.” Talia says. “My daughter, my eldest, Laura is more than fit to rule. She has a way with the people Derek never had even before the tragedy.”

“Perhaps if it were simply up to the wolf, the fates would have chosen Laura to rule.” Sarah says with a shrug. “But Laura is not alone- no wolf is. Her ryder and mate, Lawson, is a good man with a good heart, but together he and Laura are not enough to quell the oncoming darkness.”

“My son is... not what he once was,” Talia starts quietly. “Before the tragedy. I’m sure your niece has spoken as much. And yet every day there is more news of the Hyaenidae growing stronger in the south, amassing more and more power and followers. They have taken several of our towns over the boarder. The humans are distraught, the ryders and the wolves are looking to me for answers.” She looks hard at the witch. “You have said if my son still lives the empire will not fall. Derek is alive and well, teaching within the walls of the academy. How do you explain this?”

“It has been five years since the betrayal of your son by his false ryder.” Sarah says. “For those five years your son has lived without a ryder, missing half of himself and he has gone into mental and emotional decay because of it. You are right, Talia, Derek is not what he once was. Without his true ryder he is dying a spiritual death. And as goes your son, so goes your empire.”

“Derek is thirty-one years old and his true ryder has never surfaced.” Talia says. “We’re not even sure he has one. How can I possibly save my son if his ryder never shows up?”

Sarah looks thoughtfully at the queen before standing up and leading her out the backdoor of woodland home. “Come with me.” Sarah says, stepping out into the afternoon light.

The two women enter Sarah’s back garden. In the center of the beautiful and wild ever-blooming plants is a deep pit with a low fire burning. Sarah takes an earthenware jug from a shelf and pours some exotic mix of herbs through her hands, sprinkling them into the flames, humming under her breath. The fire bursts forth with renewed energy and a deep black curling smoke begins to rise into the sky like floating ink on the woodland breeze.

“Since the tragedy that befell the royal family five years past I have divined the presence of Derek’s true ryder through great mental difficulty and spiritual sacrifice. I watched him from the afar through the smoke of my fire.” She looks across the flames at Talia. “He is not only your son’s ryder- he is your son’s mate.”

“That would not be surprising.” Talia says. “If you have been watching my son’s true mate, then he must exist. Who is he?”

“He and your son have not yet come together because the fates have yet to judge them worthy or able to form such a bond as is required of them.” Sarah says, throwing more herbs into the fire. Smoke white and pale as death now joins the black in an ominous warring curl. She closes her eyes. “Many a night I have watched him- the one who the fates have chosen for your son. The one you seek is an untamed child. A sickled soul whose blood has bent him away from the straight and narrow path of the ryders. He is as cunning as a fox with the courage of wildfire on drought land. His constancy is matched only by his anger; his heart is as large as it is broken.” The witch opens her eyes to look sympathetically at the empress. “Your son’s rightful ryder is as cursed by who and what he is as he is blessed by it. Perhaps the fates have judged it best they be kept apart.”

“I won’t believe the fates could be that cruel.” Talia says, setting her jaw. “Has not my family respected them for generations? Haven’t I brought my children up to live in the light?”

“As we grow older the torch is passed from mother to son.” Sarah says. “Your son has been poisoned against his better nature and thus has been turned cold to his own instincts, and his ryder has been trapped in a dark place all his own. Neither recognize love so neither will recognize each other. The rhythms of their lives beat against each other in drums of war rather than together in harmony.”

“That is an impossible situation the fates have doomed us to.” Talia shakes her head. “The fates say only my son can save us and yet they keep the only one who can save him from him. Is there nothing I can do? How can you be so sanguine about this, Sarah? Life as we know it depends on Derek and his ryder.” She looks to the witch desperately. “You must do something. Show me how to save my son. I will not believe there is nothing we can do.”

“The witches are much older than the wolves or the ryders or even mankind, Talia.” Sarah says, not unkindly. “I have seen empires and whole species rise and fall. Sometimes, the way forward is best left to itself without mortal intervention.”

“Sarah, you and your coven are our oldest allies.” Talia says solemnly. “You were there at my birth. You performed my wedding. You delivered each of my children. I am asking you now, not as an empress, not as a commander of armies, not as a queen- I am asking you as a mother.” Talia gazes at the witch with tears in her eyes. “Save my son. Deliver Derek from the poison in his heart so that he may deliver all of us from the oncoming night.” The queen reaches into her cloak and pulls out an object wrapped in oil cloth. “You said yourself at my son’s birth- he is beloved by the fates. Do you remember? You said my son would blessed with great physical strength, his voice would be that of a summer storm, his beauty would be matched only by the majestic rivers. You said that with every enemy my son stuck down in the name of the light his power and favor would grow.”

“Everything I said has come to pass, Talia.” Sarah says. “Is he not beloved by his men? By your people? Do his sisters not dote on him? Is he not admired throughout the Norther Alliance as a god prince?”

“Derek has personally shed an ocean of our enemies blood.” Talia says. She passes the package across to the witch. “This is the heart I cut from a Hyaenidae warrior he culled not two days ago. I want you to call on the blood sacrifice my son has made of our enemies and summon his mate to his side once and for all.”

“I was not aware Derek was still fighting without a ryder.” Sarah said. “You of all people know how dangerous that is for him, Talia.”

“He can no sooner be kept from the killing plains than he can be kept from breath.” Talia says. “Will you do it?”

“What you ask of me is the blackest kind of magic.” Sarah says, looking down at the wrapped organ in her hands. “This may not end well for you or for your son and his mate.”

“I would rather damn my soul forever than leave my people to die and our ways to fade into nothingness.” Talia says.

“There is a cost to what you ask for,” Sarah warns. “One you may not yet see.”

“It is a chance I am willing to take.” Talia says bravely. “All my life I have believed in the fates. I have believed in my son. I believe in his ryder. Whatever the cost, whatever the sacrifice- we will weather the storm. I believe they can do it.” She looks at the witch. “Will you do it, Sarah? Will you take hands?”

“Should we succeed- and I am not promising we will, I will not pretend to know what you will have unleashed or what will be asked of Derek and this lost child I have seen in my visions.” Sarah says, staring into her fire. “But if this is course you have decided to take, Talia V, then I will honor my friendship with the wolves and I will take hands. May the fates help us all.”

The witch unwraps the organ carefully from the oil cloth and takes a gleaming jeweled dagger from the breast of her dress. She then walks around the garden carefully gleaning the correct herbs and flowers. She hauls out a large marble bowl and carefully quarters the enemy heart, throwing careful pieces of it into the mix while humming dark hymns and vespers in her low throat. As the mixture grows and solidifies, the witches eyes roll back, white in her head and her voice expands until it sounds like not one but an ungodly chorus of unearthly voices fill the garden. The noise is terrible and haunting, and all around them the sounds of the forest come to a deathly silence until all that can be heard is the ghostly chanting, like the choirs of hell. With hands moving of their own accord the witch blindly tosses the potent brew into the flames of the fire. All at once darkness covers the normal afternoon sunlight, and the sky grows blacker than the deepest night. The witch holds shaking hands above the fire, still unseeing and terrible as white smoke rises in waves and then torrents as it forms the faceless horrid shapes of the unidentifiable dead.

The witch calls out in the voices which are not her own. “With the powers of the sun and the sky, of the earth and the roiling deep, with the gifts granted to me and my bloodline at Delphi, I call upon the slain enemies of Derek, the beloved son of the fates, the hope of the light! Rise and serve the one who has claimed dominion over you in the act of extinguishing your mortal lives!” The ghostly, crying shapes thicken in the smoke, dancing in and out of the blackness in hellish movement. “I call upon you, the conquered souls of the blackness, bring the child chosen by the fates your enemy master’s side!”

A ghastly moaning comes from the smoke and the tendrils morph and form a great wailing mouth before the witch and the queen. It takes a great gasp like one dying and begins to speak in the voices and a thousand long dead men. “We hear your call, daughter of Delphi. Across the immortal plains, we have followed your unholy summons. Tonight, under the full moon which gives our enemy power, our still living brothers will bring to his side the one you seek. Through blood and bile we will bring the wolf’s fated to his side. But be warned, children of the moon, be warned by us, the fallen, your enemies even in death: even if the child you seek should live through the night, what is already broken will not be healed by the hand of his wolf alone.”

“Damned spirits- it is I, Talia the mother of the one who has imprisoned you in death. By the authority my son has gained over you through the taking your life’s blood I demand you to speak plainly!” Talia calls out in a powerful voice into the smoke. “Tell me how my son might be saved! The power of the moonlight compels you to speak!”

The great mouth lets out a horrible, bone-chilling laugh. “The one you seek from us is a son of Salome. A half-cursed sickling. In order to save your wretched kind wolf and ryder must form a willing bond of blood and sacrifice, the likes of which have not been invoked by your kind in an age. Should they fail in this, your son will not live and our brothers will at last take their revenge.” Another great and horrible laugh comes from the fire. “Good luck, Talia, Queen of the Beasts. For you cannot bind that which is broken.”

All at once the great fire is abruptly snuffed out, smoke and all, as if it never burned. The light of the afternoon comes back and the birds begin to sing again. Talia looks over at Sarah with great sorrow in her eyes.

Sarah looks back, quite recovered from her magic-induced fit. “Well, it seems to have taken.” She looks over at her fire. “In quite dramatic fashion, I might add.” She reaches down and wraps what is left of the Hyaenidae heart back in the cloth. She hands it to the queen. “Feed this to Derek tonight and it will be as your enemies have foretold.”

Talia takes the bundle numbly. “A sickling?” She asks, her voice hushed, her eyes troubled. “A Salome? Can it be true?”

Sarah takes the queen’s arm and guides her back to the house. “I tried to warn you.” She says. “I have foreseen this in the fires.”

“I suppose this is what you meant by the ryder being ‘cursed by who and what he is as much as he is gifted.’” Talia notes. She shudders. “I fail to see the gift in such a thing.”

“The wolves wouldn’t, no.” Sarah looks up at the queen sagely. “However, my kind sees the sicklings, rare as they are, as a great boon if treated correctly.” She pats the queen’s arm. “Have faith and take heart. Derek has great courage still and his ryder is his equal in this.”

Talia sighs and looks out the doorway into the vast trees beyond the witch’s house. “You said my child is dying inside.”

“Dying, yes.” Sarah says, following her gaze. “But not dead. Where there is life, there is hope.”

“Pray to the fates for me and mine.” Talia says to the witch. “I fear the road the fates have set my son upon is treacherous.”

“He will not be alone.” Sarah says. “Not if he and his ryder choose. It is beyond you or even I now, Talia. The choice to take this road lies in them now.”


	2. If the Night

“No.” Derek’s voice is gruff and almost sullen despite its rich tambour as the powerful warrior prince son of the wolves stares into his empty place setting. “I won’t do it.”

“Derek,” Talia’s voice carries every year of her over thirty year reign in its tone. “I’m not asking.” She sets a finely thrown bowl of hearty stew in front of her son. “Eat your dinner.”

“Of course you’re not asking.” Derek says acerbically, clenching his pewter soup spoon in his hand angrily. “That would mean we are actually discussing this, which I refuse to do.”

Talia is standing just behind her son in his private chambers in the basement of Torrance Hall. A lively fire is lit behind the intricately wrought grate, highlighting her elegant midnight black hair, streaked with silver, swept up off her neck with a gold and topaz hairpin. The empress is dressed in a buttery leather tunic, dyed a deep burgundy, and linen strides. From her regal shoulders hangs soft woven robes of deep plum cashmere. Her son has his handsome jaw set and his black boots dug into the polished flagstones of his floor. He sits at his hand carved work table with a look of forbidding anger in his eyes. Across the room, leaning casually against the wall stands a young red headed witch in elegant mint robes staring distastefully at the prince’s meal.

“It’s not like you to be insubordinate, Derek.” Talia notes calmly.

Derek glares up at her is derision. “Are you asking me to do follow through with this idiocy as my mother or as the High Commander?”

Talia lays a hand on her son’s shoulder. “There is no difference. Eat.”

Derek looks down at the bowl. “Funereal stew?” He raises his eyebrows. “A bit unseasonable.”

“Since when are you any kind of expert on food quality.” Lydia rolls her eyes from the side.

Derek shrugs and shoves an overly aggressive mouthful of the stew into his mouth. He doesn’t notice the witch make a face.

“Derek, what have I always raised you and your sisters to do?” Talia continues evenly. “Trust the fates. Honor the fates. Do good.” She pats her son, looking down at him. “The fates have once again spoken; they will not be ignored. And neither will I.”

“The fates.” Derek practically spits through a mouthful of stew. “From the day of my birth I have done nothing but try to honor the fates.” He looks at his mother bitterly. “I think it’s fairly obvious to everyone, Mother, that the fates have already spoken.” He looks down again. “I know my place. I do. And I know if I spend the rest of my life in service it will never mitigate the past.” He sighs. “Please. I will continue to do my part for the Alliance. All I ask is for my solitude in return.” He closes his eyes. “I know you mean well, Mother. I know my sisters do too. But I see the road ahead of me and I am at peace with it.” His voice is quiet. “Please let me walk it with what little dignity I have left.”

Talia reaches down and gently touches her son’s chin, bringing his eyes to hers. “You suffered a grave loss, Derek. We all did.” She says. “A loss which was not part of what was foretold at your birth and was also not your fault.” She looks intently in his eyes. “But you are my son and my heir and we are more than what we’ve lost.” She gently lets go of his chin, but maintains steady eye contact with the prince. “The witches have spoken again, Derek.”

Derek glances over at Lydia before looking up at his mother again, alarmed. “Why now?” He asks. “They have remained silent for over thirty years.”

“You know why.” Talia says. “Dangerous times are upon us. They see the blackness drawing ever near, just as we do.”

“I am fighting as hard as I can.” Derek grates out, looking down, ashamed.

“You are fighting blind and deaf with no armor to soften the blows.” Lydia interjects, walking over to Derek and taking a seat across from him.

“I was not meant to have a ryder!” Derek seethes at her, his eyes flashing dangerously.

“You will die without one!” Lydia counters, her voice just as vehement. She looks up at the alpha queen. “And we will all perish after you.” She looks back at Derek, her eyes bright and focused. “I saw the smoke signs today of which your mother speaks. They came this afternoon in my own fire.” She says. “There has indeed been another prophecy.”

“Please tell me this one does not involve me.” Derek growls.

“You must do as your mother commands and go out tonight under the moon.” Lydia says, her eyes bright and unblinking. “It is time.”

Derek looks back at the witch, speechless for a moment. Then he blinks. “I don’t believe it.” He says coldly. “This is just another trick.” He sneers. “Another game to get me to choose a ryder.”

“If that is true,” Lydia argues. “Then what have you to loose?”

“My sanity?” Derek grouses.

“There is no choosing a ryder, Derek.” Talia reminds him. “Not for the alpha class. Just as there is no choosing a wolf for the alpha ryders. Your wolf will see him and know him for who and what he is. Just as my wolf did. Just as your sisters’ have.”

“So I’ve been told.” Derek grounds out, looking blackly down into his half-finished bowl. “So I’ve been told.” He looks up at Lydia, his face stony. “What exactly did the smoke foretell this time?”

“I haven’t gotten it all sorted out yet.” Lydia says. “Things are never as they first appear when the fates grant us the gift of second sight.” She looks at him softly. “But I know you must go out tonight, Derek. He will be waiting for you.” She sighs. “The fates have sent us a warning. I believe you will die without him. And as you go-“

“So goes the empire.” Derek finishes darkly. “Yes, I know.”

Lydia takes Derek’s hand in her own. “Take heart, alpha prince.” She says. “There will be no fooling you this time.”

Derek looks at her, his eyes broken. “How can you be sure?”

“I believe in the fates.” Lydia says simply.

“Go out tonight.” Talia says to her son. “Your sister, Cora, doesn’t think I know she and her friends are planning to camp out in the no man’s lands to the west of the river. Go tail them. If you do not find your ryder tonight, or you meet no one that you are absolutely certain of, come home and I promise to leave you in peace.”

“Very well.” Derek says, rising. “I thoroughly intend to hold you to that.” He leans down and kisses his mother on the cheek. “Cora’s going to camp in no man’s land?” Derek looks concerned. “Does she never tire of tempting the devil? She is a perfect little idiot.”

“I’m sure nothing will happen.” Lydia sighs. “The kids like to run around there all the time.”

“It isn’t safe.” Derek says, frowning. “The no man’s lands are by definition not properly guarded.”

“Well tonight will be an exception.” Talia says. “Come Lydia, let’s let my son prepare.”

The two women exit Derek’s chambers, closing the heavy carved mahogany door behind them. They walk evenly down the deserted dungeon corridor for a time in silence before Lydia looks around keenly, making certain they are alone.

“Please do not tell me what kind of black magic you and my aunt invoked today to summon Derek’s rider from the mists of anonymity.” Lydia hisses to the queen.

Talia’s face gives nothing away. “I shouldn’t have to tell a witch of your accomplishments anything, Lydia.”

“With all do respect, Empress, there is a reason why the black arts are so taboo to my kind!” Lydia says. “Do I even want to know what was in that stew?”

“Lydia, one day in the distant future you will take Sarah’s place as the head witch of the coven.” Talia says evenly. “On that day you will understand heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

“Did my aunt give you any conception of what lies before Derek?” Lydia asks anxiously.

“She spoke of my son’s ryder, yes.” Talia says simply.

“She does not know Derek as I know him.” Lydia says. “I cannot think of anyone in a worse place to form a bond, let alone one with a Salome. And I do not believe the bond the prophecy spoke of is a normal bond between beast and ryder, or even a normal alpha class bond. I’m still doing research in the old papers and books of my ancestors, but what was described is going to take time and willingness and sacrifice.” Lydia sighs. “I can’t imagine Derek being receptive to any of that, let alone trying to make it work with a Salome.”

“On his own, I agree that would be impossible.” Talia says. “But my son will not be alone. Your aunt foresaw his ryder will also be his mate. I only pray together they will be able to do what they cannot do alone. After all, such is the crux of every beast and ryder relationship.”

“There is death on the wind tonight.” Lydia says softly. “I will burn the midnight oil and search for answers about what my aunt foretold. I will be there to greet you and the new ryder in the morning.”

“Thank you, Lydia.” Talia says.

“Do not thank me, Empress.” Lydia replies. “The fate of the empire depends on this working.” She closes her eyes. “May the fates show mercy.”


	3. Careful Watch

“Oh my God!” Stiles pants, breathless as the great brown wolf shakes him gently off his mounted position, sending the slender boy ryder tumbling to the ground behind a massive tree trunk. “Not cool. I hope you realize we are losing to Miss Congeniality and her ginger purse dog.”

In front of him the large wolf, easily the height of a good-sized pony shakes his rippling coat, his large pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. Scott is not yet completely full grown, nor is he as built as the veteran warrior wolves who have already graduated from the academy and are currently serving in the Empress’s forces, but Stiles is sure his best friend has potential. After all, in his wolf form, Scott isn’t the scrawniest beast Stiles has ever seen. He’s got the same broad chest of the other beast warriors, and Stiles is sure it will fill out after a year or two at Torrance Hall. Scott's hind legs are massive, powerful and graceful like all wolves’ limbs, designed to maneuver rough terrain at great speeds. Like all beasts, Scott has two sets of forearms, each muscled and strong, with large hand-like paws that sport vicious claws and opposable thumbs. Mostly when he and Scott are messing around Stiles rides on Scott’s back, but sometimes Scott will wrap his powerful second forearms around him in a firm hold and carries Stiles under him, close to his broad furry chest, while he uses his first set of forearms and his powerful legs to send them both vaulting over the woods. Scott doesn’t carry him like that too often though, it’s a technique mostly used by the alpha class. Looking at Scott in his beast form it’s almost hard to believe that he can morph and change at will and become boy-shaped like Stiles, himself.

The great wolf shakes again before turning back into the friendly-looking 18 year-old boy Stiles has spent his whole life with. He crouches down on his human legs next to Stiles behind the tree. Stiles hands him a paint ball gun with a smirk.

“What can I say, man?” Scott says. “Cora and Heather are alpha class. They can already talk to each other while Cora’s in wolf form. We can’t.”

“They are not kicking our asses because of a communication problem, Scott.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “They haven’t had any more training than we have. We’re all going to be first year cadets together. How good can their creepy mind link be?”

“I don’t know.” Scott looks thoughtful. “I’m a beta. We’re going to need years of training before we can mind link like that, and even then I’ve heard it’s never as strong as an alpha class’s bond. Cora said their’s like instantaneous and only grows stronger and sharper with training. She said after only a few months into training she expects she’ll be able to sense Heather’s emotions.”

“That’s crazy.” Stiles says. “Like I’d ever want to feel your emotions. You cry at SO many movies.”

“Shut up!” Scott laughs, playfully decking Stiles on the shoulder. “Like I want to feel your ADD.”

“ADD isn’t an emotion, moron.” Stiles laughs. “And you’re just jealous of my genius.”

“Please.” Scott scoffs. “You would look like a Jackson Pullock painting right now if it wasn’t for me.”

“Verses the circus clown look I’m sporting now thank’s to your amazing ability to dodge nothing?” Stiles shoots back, motioning to his paint splattered clothes. “I bet I could even get Heather without your clumsy mutt paws tipping them off every time we get within fifty yards.”

“Oh you are so on!” Scott crows. “Alphas are fucking insane protective, dude. Cora isn’t going to let you get a single shot even close to her ryder.”

“Challenge accepted.” Stiles says, smirking. “And when I nail Heather you’re going to haul all my shit up to my dorm when we move into Torrance Hall in three days.”

“Lame.” Scott says. “Like you weren’t going to make me do that anyways.”

“Hey,” Stiles says. “If you’re that afraid of losing...”

“You wish!” Scott says. “And when you fail, you’re going to show up to our first class at school in your shorts and nothing else!”

“That sounds like a great way to start out the school year.” Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Who’s afraid of losing now?” Scott challenges.

“Your mom!” Stiles says. “Now get out of here before you blow my cover!”

Stiles scrambles up and turns to take off in the opposite direction of their hiding place, scrambling over the broken terrain on his two fallible human legs. Stiles looks around the dark woods, admittedly a little nervous to be out in no man’s land without Scott. Cora, Heather, Scott and him have spent time in this area of the woods before, and he knows it to be the safest of the unmarked lands, but they’ve never been out here at night before. The four friends are on a camping trip; one last hurrah before they report as first year cadets at Torrance Hall, the Royal Academy of Beast and Ryder in a few days. Stiles first met Princess Cora Hale three years ago at a festival held in his and Scott’s hometown, and they had instantly liked the wild-haired spunky wolf and the pretty soft spoken brunette who was fated to be her ryder. Cora was a brash and outgoing girl who liked Converse tennis shoes and bad 80s films. She and Stiles both had the same sense of humor, and they both liked practical jokes and hiking. Since their first meeting, the friends had often exchanged letters while Stiles and Scott continued their standard education in Beacon Hills and Cora and Heather lived at the palace with Cora’s mother and her elder sister and the court in North Isles. A few times a year, Cora and Heather would road trip out to see the boys, and they would hike through the national parks, or spend a few days at the beach.

Cora remains the only member of the royal family Stiles has ever met, and even now he doesn’t really think of the bubbly 18 year-old as a princess. Cora has often voiced her dislike for the serious militaristic environment of the palace, and she always seems to be happy to get away from it all with her friends. Still, Cora is nothing if not adventurous and she is just as excited as any of them to start her year at Torrence Hall.

Like Cora and Heather, Scott’s family is a legacy. The McCalls have been attending Torrance Hall to study as both ryder and wolf warriors for generations. It was always a given Scott would be excepted into the exclusive training program. For as long as Stiles can remember, he and Scott have planned to attend together- to be a team fighting against the Hyaenidae in service to the Northern Alliance. Ryder blood has been in Stiles’ family for a long time as well, but none of the Stilinskis have served in that capacity for nearly two hundred years. Still, Stiles is smart and he studies hard. When Cora learned of his ambition to attend Torrance Hall, she made sure the lowly son of a town sheriff received the fair consideration Stiles’ application deserved. Now, Stiles’ life long dreams were finally about to come true. After this last camping trip, he and his best friend were heading off to their training program for the next three years.

Hell- is was dark out here. Wasn’t it supposed to be a full moon? Without the benefit of Scott’s nocturnal wolf vision, Stiles finds no man’s land more intimidating than when he’s with his beast friends. Still, Stiles has done plenty of hiking on his own over the years, and he’s not about to turn back admit to Scott or anyone else he’s too skittish for the night. Scott is as good a friend as anyone could ask for, but he and Cora and Heather and almost every other cadet at Torrance Hall were raised in traditional ryder/wolf families- Stiles was not. The legacy families are traditionally large and proud, filled with decorated wolves and their ryder partners. Bonding and interdependence upon one another is a given in Scott’s house the way it never was in Stiles’ growing up. Scott almost never spends any time alone. When he’s not with Stiles, he’s hanging out with the other wolves from their school, or with his large extended family. Legacies get bored and anxious when they’re left alone, from infancy they are surrounded by pack. Solitude is an unknown and frightening concept, even to the non-alpha class families. By contrast, Stiles has spent much of his time away from Scott alone. His father works long hours, out on patrol in their small town, and other than Scott and Cora, Stiles has never felt a great connection with the others. Without a mother, you learn quickly to rely on yourself, there is nobody to pick you up when you fall, nobody to call when you wake up from nightmares at night. Problems aren’t a thing to be shared, they’re to be born in silence and handled on your own. Stiles knows he doesn’t always handle things well, but he can handle them, and that’s what counts. After all, if he doesn’t deal with his own shit nobody else will. He won’t be anyone else’s burden, be it his father’s, Scott’s, or his new teachers at Torrance Hall.

There is a noise. It’s too dark to see anything, and Stiles doesn’t have the increased sense of smell of his usual cohorts. Still, in the familiar trees, there is an unmistakable and unfamiliar ripple of danger. It shoots down Stiles’ spine like the touch of an unwanted lover, intimate and frightening. All at once everything in Stiles is still and on edge. His whole back is straight with the strain of increased consciousness. There is something on the wind tonight- something Stiles who has yet to even have his first day at the academy has ever been totally face to face with, something he didn’t expect to face until later. Stiles looks up into the twisted canopy of trees, knowing somewhere inside himself that it’s already too late. Stuffed somewhere under his hoodie is a knife, a weapon he’s carried on him since he was ten, when his dad first started leaving him home alone. He grips it through his clothes, but that’s all there is. Even more alarming, Stiles doubts his friends are even armed that much. He’s out here naked. Not yet a ryder, not yet a man. Just a stupid human kid. Then comes the smell.

There are four of them. Rancid and hulking. Black muzzles, and mangy spotted fur. Yellow eyes filled with hate and a sort of demonic glee. Hyaenidae warriors on the hunt in no man’s land. Neither man nor beast, Stiles has never seen the enemies of the Norther Alliance outside of news footage. The demons walk upright like men, but are covered in fine, matted, scared fur like animals. They have inhuman faces and are tattooed and covered in battle scars. The four wear Hyaenidae corpse war paint and some have human fingers or wolf ears hanging off their belts- kill trophies. They advance on him low and terrible, sharp blades in their claws, growling lowly. All Stiles can see is rows and rows of sharp yellow teeth and murderous eyes.

Stiles looks behind him, into the dark trees. It’s too late for him- he knows that, but he must lead these animals away from Princess Cora, and Heather, and Scott. If he can get them to chase him long enough, they may never discover the others.

“What have we here?” One of the warriors hisses. He speaks like a man, but his voice is not human. “A human child in no man’s land?”

“Stay back!” Stiles says, his voice sounding ridiculous to his own ears.

The four warriors must agree, because they all let out bone chilling cackles- all except the leader, who raises his hellish muzzel to the sky and inhales deeply.

“What are you going to do, child?” One of the others says. “You haven’t even sense to stay with your own kind.”

One of the others laughs. “I was getting hungry. Pity there isn’t more meat on this one.”

“He’ll do for tonight.” The first one laughs. “There is nothing like the untainted blood of a human child.”

“I said, stay back!” Stiles says again, miraculously keeping his voice from shaking. Internally he steels himself to run.

“Brave little thing.” One of the warriors says. “Must be a half-wit.”

“Humans always have a worse bark than their bite.” Another cackles. “He’ll show fear soon enough. They always do after a few broken bones. Humans are so easy to break.” He bares his teeth in a wretched grin.

The leader has been silent up until now. He peers closely at Stiles. “No...” He breathes, and his voice is chillingly quiet. “Not a human. Better.” He slowly approaches Stiles. “The Northern Alliance is getting even softer than we thought.” He says, his yellow eyes pinning Stiles down. Stiles forces himself not to look away, or show any outward sign of fear. “They used to keep their infant ryders under better protection.”

“A ryder?” The first looks over sharply at the leader as the other three look around looking cautious for the first time. “Where is his wolf?”

“Don’t be a fool!” The leader snaps. He smiles, slow and evil at Stiles. “He is unclaimed.” The Hyaenidae tilts his head at Stiles. “You think your blood will save you, ryder? No matter what fairy tales the Northern Alliance has fed you, I can tell you it will not.” He cackles now. “It is a kindness, really.” He says. “Your wolf will never even know what he has lost.”

That’s right. Stiles thinks. Let them believe there is no wolf. They’ll never find Scott or the others.

He glares up at the monster. “Then kill me now and have done with it.”

The leader stares at him a long moment before finally looking back to his warriors. “There is something about you, ryder.” He says softly, almost to himself. “You have no healthy respect for death.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Stiles says, jutting his chin out. And at that moment, it is no lie. Stiles is too afraid of these monsters finding his friends to fear for his own safety.

“Is that so?” The leader says. “Then I won’t make your death easy.”

Stiles glares back. “Neither will I.”

“It is true then.” One of the others murmurs. “There are ryders who no longer fear pain.”

“That is a myth!” The leader snaps, cuffing the warrior harshly. “This one hasn’t known pain enough to fear it. He will before I’m through with him.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Stiles shoots back, gearing his body for flight.

The leader takes another deep inhale, looking up into the sky.

“I don’t like this.” One of the others says nervously. “There’s full cloud cover but it is a full moon.”

“He is unclaimed.” The other repeats. “There is no wolf coming, and even if there was, there are four of us. Let’s kill him and have done with it.”

“Yes.” The leader says. “But before we’re through, you will give up your secret, ryder.”

Stiles is thoroughly confused. He isn’t sure what exactly the leader of these monsters is on about, but he’s not about to stick around and let them all find out. He pushes off his left leg, ready to catapult himself back into the trees when there is the terrific sound of crashing wood and breaking branches.

Stiles has just enough time to see one of the Hyaenidae’s eyes grow large and the fiend screams out, “Holy shit! You said he was unclaimed-“ before all hell breaks loose.

A huge shadow like something out of a nightmare is flying over Stiles’ head and tackling one of the Hyaenidae into the ground. A massive black wolf raises himself up over the stunned warrior and bellows a hell war cry into the night. The wolf is nothing like the wolves Stiles has ever seen before. It doesn’t even vaguely resemble the friendly, cuddly furry body of Scott’s beast form. Enormous and sleek as the night itself, this wolf is muscled and ferocious- a veteran warrior killing machine from the elite ranks of the Northland Armies. All four of its front claws gleam in the night as it rips into the screaming Hyaenidae, before punting its lifeless body aside like a rag doll. The Hyaenidae leader jumps on its back and sticks it with a rusted blade. It roars in anger, pulling the blade back with one of its massive hands, and ripping out the throat of the leader with another. The wolf fights with deadly and terrible fluidity, all brutality and merciless force. It pays no heed to the gory carnage it's creating, flaying into the Hyaenidae with ferocious roars and monstrous accuracy. The scene is bloody and terrible. More of a massacre than a battle. Blood flies across the ground as the beast makes short work of the other two Hyaenidae. Within a span of seconds there is nothing but Stiles, the beast, and the broken, bloodied remains of the four warriors around them. The hulking black wolf turns and looks at Stiles with red eyes.

“Oh my god.” Stiles gasps, almost positive he’s next.

The wolf advances towards him, dropping to all fours, his second set of upper limbs off the ground, like something out of a hellish dream. It’s staring at him, blood dripping from all six of its limbs, its teeth red from the slaughter. Stiles was too afraid of the Hyaenidae finding his friends to feel fear at the prospect of death at their hands, but this wolf is not something he’s ever expected. There is something about the way it is looking at him, something about how fixed this monster is, staring at him with red-eyed intensity that terrifies Stiles more than he ever thought possible. All at once it’s too much. He wants out. He wants to wake up from this nightmare and run to the arms of his father. The thing is coming closer and closer. Stiles turns and flees.


	4. Like Breathing was Easy

First there is heartbeat. A pulse, thready and fearful like a snared animal’s, but potent and alive like a soldier’s. A four note rhythm, a song in the darkness like a fingerprint in his ears. An audible touch. He knows it the way a newborn knows the first adoring touch of its mother. It is like being born again. It is the waking kiss, the live giving brush of lips on the mythical sleeping beauty. It is every tired cliche, every melody of every love song, it is the time tested words of the poet on the page, it is the pull of the moon on the oceans. It is everything they said it would be and everything he’d stopped looking for.

It is like seeing a shooting star and knowing it for what it is.

The wolf follows the heartbeat sound like a bird flying to the life-giving sun of the south in winter. An ancient instinct, moving in a way he didn’t need to be taught. As he draws nearer to the source, the wolf’s keen sense of smell begins to form a better picture of the situation. What he finds ignites his blood and sends him into a dead run. Yes, the sweet, siren smell of the heartbeat ryder, but something else too- blood and fear and death. The rancid scent of the Hyaenidae. The wolves’ enemies have found the heartbeat before he could, and now they are trying to extinguish it, trying to take his ryder from him. The wolf tastes blood in his mouth and feels nothing but the cold instinct to kill, to protect what’s his. The urge to strike out and show no mercy is potent. If he must, the wolf will face down an army to protect his ryder. He will fight and he will kill. He will win.

When the wolf finds him the scene is all at once beautiful and terrifying and enraging. The ryder is there, his heartbeat thankfully strong and healthy, soothing and steady, but crying out to the wolf for help. The enemies are there too, closing in hungrily with blood in their eyes and death in their gates. The wolf is at once torn between wanting to run to his ryder, to check him over, make sure these fiends haven’t touched him, haven’t hurt him, and the obvious, more pressing instinct to destroy them, to make them pay for so much as setting eyes on the wolf’s ryder. The boy can wait. The enemy still breathes.

The wolf makes quick work of his enemies, fueled by rage and fear and a very human anxiety. There is blood on his claws and in his mouth and the wolf is filled with triumph at their deaths. The threat is extinguished; his ryder lives, unmolested and safe. The wolf raises his head and howls in sheer victory. The moon comes out from behind the clouds. He has protected what is his tonight. The wolf has done his most ancient and sacred duty and in his triumph, he has shown his ryder his strength, his worthiness as partner and protector. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right to the wolf. The world is back in alignment and he is back in control. The apex predator. The supreme master of beasts. What God and nature have granted the wolf as his birthright on the top of the food chain. He is flush with victory, with the knowledge that he has passed this brutal test of dominance.

“Oh my god.”

There is the heartbeat. Faster now. Alarmingly so. The wolf turns back to the ryder, eager to sooth, eager to see the ryder’s approval for himself. He is a young thing, barely more than a cub, all slender limbs and balletic angles. His eyes are large and as beautiful as the moon herself. But something is wrong. The boy ryder radiates fear and confusion, his scent is sick with it. He is staring at the wolf like he doesn’t know him. This is wrong. The ryder belongs to the wolf. Doesn’t he know it? The wolf is his protector, his alpha guardian. He’s just saved the ryder from their shared enemies. Doesn’t the boy feel it? The wolf drops to his fore paws, wanting to be close to his ryder, wanting to reassure him. The ryder smells so fearful, so distraught. This is all wrong.

Instinctively, the wolf reaches out with his mind, extending a psychic hand, a soft mental caress, seeking the connection he knows is there. A flash of warm, like something alive and bright and then nothing. It’s gone like a fish through slippery fingers. The wolf frowns and tries again, more forcefully this time. He can smell terror on the ryder, but he wants in the ryder’s mind, he wants to connect their bond the way nature intended. He wants to feel the boy’s fear for himself, hunt out the root, and find a way to gentle him. This time the wolf hits a wall, cold and dead and impenetrable like the thickest steel. The wolf stares at the ryder in confusion. How can one so young have mental defenses so strong, and why would he wield them against the wolf? The boy looks back, his face betraying nothing of the wall he’s erected between them. The wolf reaches out again, desperate for the bond, wanting to solidify their natural connection. He hits the wall again and again, like battering at an abandoned military grade fort when nobody is inside. Then the ryder turns and runs.

Confusion and desperation immediately turn to rage in the wolf. How dare he? How dare this young ryder run from him? He belongs to the wolf. They need to go back to the wolf’s den and connect, to bond. The wolf takes after the boy, catching him easily and tossing him on the ground, pinning his warm fragile body under the wolf’s solid bulk. The ryder cries out in surprise and fear, and actually tries to hit him. The wolf is having none of that. He growls a low warning, close to the boy’s face, baring all of his teeth, slamming the offending hand into the ground. The boy stops struggling then, his heart hammering in his chest. The beautiful moon eyes stare up at him in fear. Desperately, the wolf extends himself psychically again, trying to communicate.

Who are you? He howls at the iron wall in the ryder’s mind. What have they done to you? Who has been keeping you from me?

The ryder blinks up. “Who are you?” He asks.

Frustrated, the wolf bends over and runs his muzzle gently over the boy’s jugular, scenting him. He tries to communicate in a touch, huffing his warm breath over that delicious smelling skin. He closes his eyes, memorizing the feel of his ryder under him. One tentative hand reaches up and softly touches his head. The wolf leans into the contact happily.

“Are you going to kill me?” The boy whispers huskily.

The wolf opens his eyes and blinks at the ryder. Clearly, something is wrong, but the ryder is not. This is the one. The one who was meant for him, the one who belongs to him. The wolf knows that he must protect this ryder, even if they can’t communicate right now. No man’s land is too dangerous, and the boy need to rest. He gathers the ryder up in his second forearms, bundling him close to his chest.

“Hey!” The boy says, affronted. “What?! Put me down.”

The wolf has no use for the ryder’s lip right now. He’s already disobeyed and run from him once tonight. The wolf picks up speed and turns back into his territory, darting through the night. There is a cave, a den in a secluded part of the wolf’s woods where the boy will be safe until morning. He has to get them there.

The wolf climbs the rocky bluff where the entrance to his den is hidden easily under the cover of darkness. The ryder is uneasy in his arms, but due to they tenuous climb, he’s stopped struggling. At last they reach the covert edge of the cave where the wolf’s den is hidden. It’s small cavern, hidden from the outside world. Inside a fire is burning low and warm. A pile of blankets and provisions sit on the side. Reluctantly, the wolf lets the boy down on the blankets, instantly missing the warmth and physical closeness. The boy scurries away from him until his back is to cave wall. He watches the wolf warily as the wolf circles around and lays in front of the entrance, his keen ears listening for sounds of their enemies.

“What is this place?” The boy asks, looking around. “I need to go back. You need to take me back.”

The wolf huffs, turning his face away from the boy’s useless chatter, looking out into the night from the mouth of their den.

“I know you’re military. You’d have to be.” The ryder says. “I need to report to the academy in a few days, you know- Torrance Hall. You can’t just keep me here!”

The wolf growls lowly again. The boy needs to stop his meaningless complaining. It’s time to rest. He looks over his shoulder out into the night again. Eventually the ryder will tire of this nonsense and sleep.

“You’re not going to take me back tonight, are you?” The boy says, looking down at the stone floor of the cave.

The wolf huffs, stretching out a little more. He rests his large head on his paws.

“My friends need to know I’m okay.” The ryder says. “I need to go back.”

The wolf gets up, not liking the fretful tone of the boy’s voice. He walks over and slumps down next to the ryder, nosing his muzzle into the boy’s lap comfortingly. They sit like that for a long moment, before the wolf feels the ryder’s hand tentatively come up to stroke his head. He closes his eyes happily and leans into the touch until he’s resting his great head against the boy’s chest.

“You’re nothing like Scott.” The boy murmurs sleepily, and the wolf contentedly listens to the ryder’s heartbeat slow until he’s asleep.


End file.
